


Cold

by thequietthatburned



Category: Death Note (Anime & Manga), Death Note: Another Note
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-15
Updated: 2019-07-16
Packaged: 2020-06-28 11:44:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19811620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thequietthatburned/pseuds/thequietthatburned
Summary: Faced with no other option, B illegally sells his emotions. All too late, he realizes he wants them back, and things get a little complicated.





	1. Heat (and the memory of it)

B’s apartment was warm.

Hot would have been a better description. Scorching. Whether or not he was unaware of the temperature or ignoring it, Beyond Birthday paced the floor. The AC unit sat useless and broken against the wall, doing nothing to chase away the growing sweat on his neck and face. He would fix it one day, but not soon.

He wasn’t going to get _anything_ fixed if things went on like this. The bookstore he worked at provided him barely what he needed for rent, and he was running out of options. He needed an escape. A get out of jail free card.

Even desperation had lost its sting with B. Even so, his sigh was a desperate one as he looked around the cramped area that he was very close to being evicted from. He found an old newspaper with the crosswords half filled out, a stray throwing dart, and a spoon that was crusted over with something old that he’d rather not think about. He would have to be very creative if those were to inspire a change for the better.

It would be convenient if his surroundings would whisper the answer to his struggles. They didn’t whisper--they shouted. His attention was tugged to a cardboard box full of glass bottles that was pushed against the wall. They pulled at his attention, murmuring to him sweetly like a brook or a comforting friend. The contents differed from bottle to bottle. Some were tinted red, a deep red that made it look as if someone had drained their very blood (or someone else's) into the mixture. Others were blue, the thick, aching blue one feels when they realize there's no going back. A few were unnaturally dark, black like the forlorn abyss of hell and the thorns and thickets of an unwelcoming forest at night. B blinked at them in quiet calculation. It was the obvious option. The only option.

The contents were his bottled emotions. The very essence of them. He, like many people in his world, had imprisoned them in containers so he didn’t have to deal with them when they rose up too strong. And, like some people, he was thinking about selling them. Illegally.

It just might work. With no shortage of unhappy people in the world, a black market for these things had emerged. Most of Beyond’s bottles were negative, but he was positive they’d still be worth something. He made his way to the box and drank in every detail. After all, emotions were the things that kept you human, right? Selling them had the nasty effect of numbing one’s insides for a three to five month period. Was he ready for that? It was survival or happiness, wasn’t it?

Luckily (or unluckily, depending on how you look at it), B knew of a place that would buy his feelings for a fair price. He moved the box onto the single bed in the apartment. The bottles clattered together, and the liquids swirled. If the moon was higher, they would have glittered. Had the moon set? B’s attention was grabbed by the blinking red light of the digital clock. 5:24 AM. Oh. That could complicate things. In a short debate with himself, he decided to leave anyway. He slipped on a black face mask (the kind you wear for pollution) to hide most of the burn scars on his lower face, and made an effort to step quietly as he exited his complex. It wasn’t far--he could walk.

The moment he walked outdoors, a warm breeze sang, stroking his skin as it moved through the dawn. It stirred the sky like a spoon in warm honey. This must have reminded him of a lovely secret, for a smile graced his lips behind the mask for a fleeting second before being bound down once more before anticipation bolted it down again.

He wasn’t familiar with the process of selling emotions. Bottling them was simple--he would just concentrate on how he was feeling, and the liquid would manifest in whatever container he held. The chosen emotion (and all others) would fade. It only lasted a few hours.

Arrival. B had his box tucked securely under his arm, the closed flaps hiding the contents. Through the cracked face, his watch read 5:32 AM. He observed the storefront. The blue and orange sign in the foggy window read 'open'. Once again, he was lucky. B took one last look at the sunrise. The gold sky bled into darker shades of orange and red, turning the display into a blazing wildfire of light. The clouds were smoke and sparks, some glowing at the edges, and...it was familiar. B concentrated on how this made him feel, freely gazing at the dawn of the morning sun, and clung to it desperately. He took a deep breath and entered the building.

B approached the counter with thinly veiled caution. The cashier looked up with little interest and grumbled a half-hearted ‘hello’. With a look from the untrained eye, the shop was simply a convenience store, so she wasn’t expecting many customers this early. Her lack of enthusiasm changed when B’s bottles rattled as he dropped the box on the counter. The stranger looked down at them, assessing quality, then back at B. He was busy staring at the space above her head. _Morgan Coleman, 55811429._ Taking the hint (and perhaps a bit intimidated by his mask and manner), she began rifling through the register to pay him.

“$4,500. That work with you?” she said, watching B carefully as he counted the bills. He nodded. This was almost 4 months of rent. “A’ight." He looked up at her expectantly. "You can leave now,” she pressed. She seemed rather impatient to see him go. Was she afraid of him, or afraid of getting caught? He stared at her quizzically for a few moments, just long enough to make her uncomfortable with the silence, then exited.

As he made his way back home, B realized he could still feel (he felt relieved), and wondered why.

The answer to his question made itself clear as a sensation pulled at the end of his conscience. It was as if someone had pulled the plug out of the basin of his soul, and something was leaving--he just wasn’t sure what. The whole experience was like falling a long distance into snow. As the heat was leached out of him, it was replaced by a gnawing emptiness. Seconds later, he was shivering, and pulsations of dull pain choked his spine.

B swerved to lean against an alley wall for a moment. He suffocated from so many internal sensations pressing against him at once. It all moved so fast, hurting him and confusing him in equal measure. Then it stopped. Every sensation that had scraped through his body disappeared, leaving B with only himself. No emotion, no humanity, no comforting sunrise. Nothing.

It was cold.


	2. What Not to do When You Meet a Woman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> B thinks he might have found himself a distraction. If he had met her under different conditions, they might have even been friends, provided she could handle him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey!! I forgot to mention this, but in this AU Naomi didn't help L solve the LABB murder case (you know, for plot reasons).

B opened his eyes, which he didn’t remember closing in the first place. His muscles had their own agenda--they were tense, and he had a feeling they'd be sore after all of this. Something was _gone_. He clawed at his shirt as if expecting a physical gap before allowing his hand to drop to his side.

Suddenly uncomfortable in the open, Beyond dashed out of the alley and jogged the rest of the way to his apartment. His mask was crumpled in his fist and he was breathing hard by the time he returned. Shaking and sweaty, he eased himself onto the side of his bed and clutched his scalp. There was no fear, no regret. He felt like he was floating in a great sea half a mile below the surface. All he was aware of was the cool embrace of seawater all around--in this case, seawater representing his total lack of feeling. Numbly, he recalled an experience where he visited a sensory deprivation tank--he had floated in lukewarm water in a dark room. He decided that experience was closer to how this one felt.

The last time Beyond had been in such a similar state of mind was the time when a dark peace had loomed over him--just before he had set himself on fire.

Sleep wouldn’t come. B pulled his pillow taut over his face. He held his breath for a few seconds, then let it all out at once. With a weak toss, the pillow ended up on the floor beside his bed. He stared at the dull paint on the ceiling, then around his room. A short observation told him that it was already about 7:00 AM.

A small pain poked around his stomach. Ah, right. He was still human. Being emotionless wouldn’t make him invincible. B stumbled his way into the kitchen. After a quick inspection, Beyond made the discovery that there was no food available (at least, any of the edible variety). No worries. He could just grab something on the way to work.

The bus ride to the café near his job was short, and any noise on the ride came from the mumbling engine or an occasional cough. He stepped off of the vehicle--once again wearing a face mask, though he had changed out of the clothes he had on earlier (the impromptu jog dirtied them). The wonder of the morning’s sunrise had dissolved, and the sky that had looked like a painting before now only offered a dreary blanket of greyness. He entered the café regardless. The bell that sounded when he opened the door mixed sweetly with the radio station they had on. He placed his order.

Soon enough, he was sitting at a table and observing the world waking up around him. He nibbled at a soggy breakfast sandwich as bored commuters trudged along outside. The bell sounded once more as another customer joined the scattered mix. B sipped his coffee without much thought as he watched her stroll up to the counter. She was fascinating, but he couldn’t decide why just yet. It could be that the way she walked had pulled at him, or perhaps it was her jaw set for a goal he was yet to discover. He let his stare linger much longer than she would have knowingly allowed. The woman brushed a few strands of her lengthy dark hair out of her face as she ordered, and he found her determination oddly endearing.

No, she wasn’t ordering. Her voice rang out much too stern for that to be the case, and she was not discussing food with the employee. Was that something about an organized crime he overheard? _Naomi Misora, 92153740._ Hm. On any other day, B might have approached her. He put his mask back on and prepared to leave.

Beyond left the café still feeling listless a few minutes later, but this time with a full stomach. He was about to get back into his car, when he heard someone calling after him--and people almost always did that under the suspicion that he had done something illegal. Not that he could blame them. Form shapes nature, after all.

“Hey! Hey, you left this back there.” It was the woman he had been interested in earlier, the one who had spoken with the barista about some sort of criminal activity. She had his coat.

“Uh, here you go...” she pressed, holding it out to him. He had been staring.

“Thank you,” he responded quickly, taking it back without breaking much eye contact. He was able to get a good look at her that way. She looked like she was in her late twenties, Asian, and all together attractive enough to be intimidating. She was also exhausted. Even so, something about her told B that if put in the situation, she could take him down without issue. It was delightfully promising.

Her eyes searched him with a judgmental air. Well, he was staring, he probably deserved it. Nevertheless, she had the kind of eyes that could look through you completely. Lying? Futile. Anything weird B had been tempted to try would be swiftly shot down. Feeling vulnerable suddenly, he ached to be back in his car.

“Is everything alright?” Naomi asked (without much genuinity), looking just as anxious to end the encounter. B pouted behind his mask, but he couldn’t really feel disappointment at the moment.

“Everything's fine,” he mumbled, and climbed into his car without explaining much of anything. He watched as the woman’s features contorted further into confusion (and judgment) as she walked away. She probably thought he was a creep. Well, she was doubtlessly right.

B and the sky were vacant, contributing nothing but an uninspiring lifelessness to the world. He sighed. Naomi Misora really did have the potential to be an interesting friend. A distraction--he liked those. On any other day, he would have...

But it was not to be. Beyond had spent all of his luck on those damn bottles, that choice had become the chains that dragged him down. He was tethered to the bottom of the sensory deprivation tank, and the shackles would not fall for several months.

He shivered as he drove away, like it was his body’s agony to be separated from what could have been. He continued driving in the opposite direction of opportunity regardless.

Even without heart, B felt like he might snap at anyone given the chance. Turns out you don’t actually need emotions to be a nasty person. It seemed that the combination of the overcast sky and missed opportunities was too much for him. B almost labelled this as a disappointment, but what was that, really? The ache in your chest after you know you’ve lost something for good? The expression you see on others when you have done something incredibly stupid? Who knew with certainty? Who was responsible for deciding what words meant? God? Scholars? The people? B decided that this was not worth stressing himself out about, and continued on with his job (which currently consisted of waiting for customers and letting his eyes be drawn wistfully to the manga section of the bookstore). This surrender proved something. Since when would he back down from a debate, even one with himself?

B wanted nothing more than to flip through one of those volumes. To see the pictures, read the words--well, he really just wanted a distraction. Something, anything. The hours passed with a recurring tediousness that B so deeply loathed. It had driven him to do very bad things in the past, things he was seriously considering repeating for the amusement.

The odd customer was of no entertainment to him. They were just ordinary citizens. Always meandering through life with the same muted empty-headedness that made him want to punch a wall and scream. Why couldn’t people have _fun_ with their lives? What was the use of training yourself for just one unfulfilling thing, sticking with doing something you hate? Something only grown-ups want you to do--not what you were built for?

B sat on his stool, propped the side of his foot on his knee, and leaned his chin on his palms, his elbows propped against the counter. He frowned. What could he do to make this more exciting? Just as he began reaching for his cell phone, the doors flew open with a bang. A familiar (now breathless) woman dashed towards the counter. It was her. B straightened his posture in response.

“How can I help you?” he asked Naomi Misora.

“Did you see a man run through here with an...uhm, a large bag? A conspicuous one?” She looked ruffled, like she had just been chasing someone. Was she with the police? Did she even recognize him? B liked to think that he wasn’t very forgettable. But with the removal of his mask and addition of a uniform and burn scars now on display, he looked a bit different. (Also, he had tied his hair back in his boredom, and Naomi was clearly too distracted to care about any of this.)

“No, sorry,” B responded, trying to look as genuine as possible, although he desperately wanted to see how the woman would act in an unusual situation. Naomi clearly didn’t buy it. Her glare reached him, scanned over him, and there it was. That glass-like feeling. B knew she could read him, and it made him shudder. But what did he have to hide? ~~The list was novels long.~~

“Is there something else?” he asked after a few sickening moments of silence. It was sort of amusing, if you had a twisted sense of humor (he did)--this time she had been the one caught staring.

“Yeah...can I see your ID?” This took B by surprise. How would that help her? He wasn’t doing something even minorly illegal at the moment, so why should she need to see _that_?

(What Beyond didn’t know was that Naomi did remember him, and that this was a petty way of getting back at him for making her uncomfortable.)

“Can I see _your_ ID, miss?” he countered in a tone practically dripping with sarcasm. He had his suspicions on her occupation, but she hadn’t actually specified, so he figured he was in line. She flashed him an FBI badge. Absolutely deadpan. B reached for his bag.

Even in this pressuring situation, his hands did not shake as he retrieved his ID from his wallet and handed it over. Maybe it was because of the void, maybe it was his amusement. Naomi read it slowly, and seemed only slightly satisfied afterwards. He hadn’t even flinched. Her disappointment was short lived, however, when an ear-splitting bang rang through the silence. B recognized this to be a gunshot. She cursed, and rushed out without thinking, taking his ID with her (which sucked, as it was his driver’s license). B decided that the store wasn’t a huge priority and followed her from a distance. His wish for some action had come true, after all.

The block was nearly deserted as pedestrians jostled their way out of the threatening situation. Panic was thick in the air, and a stranger was the center of attention. Like Naomi said, he was carrying a bulky bag with him, and he had dark layered clothing--if you were to look up the definition of suspicious, the dictionary would provide a picture of exactly this man. B wondered if he had robbed a bank or stolen files with information of national importance. More important than his musings was the fact that this man was brandishing a gun at anyone who so much as shot him a glance. This, of course, put Naomi Misora highly at risk as she sprinted away from the storefront. B could not fear for her. Still, he imagined what would happen if all of the woman’s talents were wasted, all because of the spark of a gun. That would be a shame. He opened his mouth to call her back to the sidewalk before double checking her lifespan and backing down.

As she approached the criminal, she barked some order or comment that was marked as uninteresting even before it could reach B’s thoughts. She had his back to him, which was very irking considering B had only come out for entertainment, and being relatively blind to the action was no fun.

In his vexation, Beyond Birthday had become distracted. He hadn’t even heard the gun’s safety being released. All he could make out was the bone shattering scream of the bullet exploding from it, and then silence.


End file.
